


smells like you love me

by troubadore



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alpha Geralt, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Canon-Typical Violence, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Jaskier, Scent Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:06:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22269886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubadore/pseuds/troubadore
Summary: Today Jaskier still smells of oranges and honey, but there’s something else underneath it that Geralt can’t quite place. It’s notbad, per se, but it leaves him feeling on-edge, a tightness in his skin and tension in his muscles that’s different from the usual, and he justknowssomething is going to go wrong.It always does, with Jaskier.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 61
Kudos: 3982





	smells like you love me

**Author's Note:**

> these two idiots have given me such inspiration i had to write more Immediately

When Geralt opens his eyes that morning, he knows, instinctively, that the day is going to go to shit.

He can smell Jaskier from across the campsite, scent sweet but not saccharine like most omegas Geralt has met—they’re too sugary, too flowery, like candy with too much flavoring or perfume applied too heavily.

(His alpha senses don’t like it as it is, but his witcher senses on top of it makes his nose scrunch until he's scowling and then it all sours into fear and it’s not any better, but at least fear doesn’t make it feel like his teeth are rotting from it.)

Jaskier, though—his scent is softer, orange blossoms and honey, with a hint of something crisp, like the air when rain is on the horizon. It’s clean and fresh, and it doesn’t make Geralt gag or the alpha in him recoil in disgust when he gets a whiff of it on the wind. He also doesn’t smell of fear, the sour, acidic notes never present in his scent when he’s around Geralt, and that is something Geralt will never admit he treasures.

Today Jaskier still smells of oranges and honey, but there’s something else underneath it that Geralt can’t quite place. It’s not _bad_ , per se, but it leaves him feeling on-edge, a tightness in his skin and tension in his muscles that’s different from the usual, and he just _knows_ something is going to go wrong.

It always does, with Jaskier.

(Geralt tries not to think about what it says about him that he lets it happen anyway.)

They’re heading north up the continent, if only because they’ve already been to the south and the west and the east, and making a circuit is as good a plan as any. They haven’t seen each other in a few months, and Jaskier whines about not having any new material in that brief interim, and he tags along because he’s a fool who lacks a sense of self-preservation and finds a witcher to be good company.

Geralt...doesn’t hate it.

Their coin is low, as well as their food supplies, but there’s a town a few days’ trek away, and that’s their next immediate destination. He hasn’t been up this way in a while, long enough that another monster or beast might have moved in to terrorize people, so Geralt figures they might be in need of him (whether they want to admit it or not). Jaskier claims he hasn’t been through this part either, and that he’ll get to spread his songs to yet another town full of ears ripe for listening.

It starts as a nice enough day—but so do all the others before they go to shit. Today is no exception.

They have a quick, sparse breakfast before setting off. Geralt walks beside Roach, her reigns in hand, and Jaskier trails behind him, singing snippets of lyrics that come to mind, but never a full song. He’ll play a chord only to scrunch his nose up at it and play another, and Geralt finds amusement in occasionally glancing at him to see it. The orange blossom and honey scent follows them, surrounds their little bubble of space when they stop to have lunch, and it puts Geralt at peace, relaxes his shoulders.

They stumble across the cockatrice toward dinnertime.

Well. Jaskier stumbles _into_ it and Geralt rolls his eyes as he pulls him back and puts his swords between the beast and the idiot. It’s not a big one, and it already looks wounded and weak, dripping blood as it screams at Geralt and lunges for him, and it goes down easy enough, but then the mother comes screeching out of the trees and suddenly the day goes from not too bad to utter shit.

“Fuck,” Geralt says with feeling, and braces himself for a fight.

The stench of beast blood fills the air as he throws himself into taking off the thing’s head, and it gets in a couple of good swipes but nothing his natural witcher healing ability and the last of his salves won’t fix right up. The acrid smell of _fear—_ along with something cloying, something thick and heavy—mixes with the orange blossom and honey and permeates around him, and he grits his teeth and keeps himself between the cockatrice and Jaskier as much as possible.

In a show of rarely-demonstrated intelligence, Jaskier scrambles off and finds a tree to climb up into to stay out of the way. Geralt has one sense out for him but keeps most of his focus on the cockatrice until he takes its head off too and its body slumps to the ground, dead.

Adrenaline pumps through him and Geralt glares at the dead creature for a long moment, letting it pass. When his head is clearer, he sheathes his swords and goes to pluck what feathers he can from the cockatrices. He considers digging into them for their livers and tosses the idea aside because he really, _really_ doesn’t want the smell of cockatrice guts all over his clothes for three more days.

Speaking of smells—

Jaskier has climbed out of the tree, eyes wide and hands fluttering about while he chatters nonsensically about the attack. His scent has lost the fear, but it still has that cloying and heady undertone beneath the orange blossom and the honey that’s dug itself under Geralt’s skin and refuses to let go.

“ _Gods_ , Geralt, that was magnificent!” His pulse races in his veins, heartbeat quick but calming already. “Terrifying, as well, but magnificent! It nearly _ate_ me! I could be nothing but the digested shit of a cockatrice by now if not for you! Really, what would I do without you?”

“You said it yourself,” Geralt mutters as he wipes his hands on his pants, tying the feathers he’d gathered together and heading for Roach. “You’d be cockatrice shit by now.”

Jaskier gives him a look as he follows Geralt back to where they’d left Roach but doesn’t dispute it. His heartbeat sticks at something just above sedate, his face and neck flushed, and his scent is strong, pheromones spilling off his skin in waves. Geralt inhales deeply on reflex, eyes closing, filling his lungs with the familiar, calming smell, and catches the undertone again. It smells like—it smells like lust, like _need,_ thick like molasses and just as sticky sweet.

His own skin goes hot, the alpha in him keening, and his eyes snap open. Jaskier is muttering again, looking anywhere but at Geralt, pulling at his tunic and breathing heavier than is really necessary, and it hits him—

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier cuts off mid-sentence and looks at Geralt, eyes wide and bright and so, so very goddamn blue behind the haze beginning to settle over them.

“You’re in heat,” Geralt says, and it’s not a question.

Jaskier huffs and rolls his eyes, pulls at his tunic again. “Thank you, I would never have guessed it,” he snaps. The flush deepens, and Geralt catches the lemon-sour scent of embarrassment. “I’m _trying_ not to think about it, because that just makes it _worse,_ but fine! Let’s point it out, shall we?”

Geralt’s brow furrows, his chest expanding as he inhales again, tasting honey and orange and molasses. Blood flows right to his cock and his pants are way too tight now, his skin tingling and the urge to _touch_ almost too much to ignore. _Bad idea_. He grits his teeth against it all, swallowing thickly. “Why would you come with me if you knew you were going into heat?” he spits out, and he’s not angry, just exasperated, but it comes out more biting than he intends.

“It wasn’t supposed to hit for another week!” Jaskier exclaims. He’s breathing even more heavily, panting almost, pheromones so strong now Geralt is having difficulty concentrating on his words—too focused on the light sheen of sweat making his skin glow in the evening light, the way he bites his lip, the tent in his own pants. “We were going to get to the next town, and I was going to bid you goodbye and we’d be on our merry ways, and I’d _deal with it_ like I always do, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation!”

He takes a deep breath, and Geralt doesn’t miss the soft whine that breaks out of his throat—he can smell Geralt and the answering pheromones of an alpha responding to him, but he holds himself still (barely, by the way he leans towards Geralt).

“Outside stressors, however,” he continues, looking petulantly at the remains of the cockatrice some yards away now, “can _sometimes_ cause a heat to happen early.”

Geralt blinks, takes that in, and gives him his most deadpan, unimpressed look despite the way his alpha is begging to go to him and press his nose into the scent gland on Jaskier’s neck. “You scared yourself into heat, is what you’re telling me.”

“I scared myself into my heat!” Jaskier laments, throwing up his hands in defeat. The movement wafts his scent toward Geralt, and he can’t stop the growl that escapes him, low and predatory. His skin is tight over his bones, and his alpha _wants—_ it _demands_ this omega beneath him, writhing and keening and stuffed full of his cock and his seed.

_Mine._

Geralt wishes that thought surprised him more, but of late he’s looked at Jaskier—his blue eyes and his soft skin, his scent that entices him instead of repelling him, his unwavering loyalty and brave spirit—and wanted it to be true.

He takes a heavy step forward, towards Jaskier, and forces himself to a halt when Jaskier sucks in a sharp breath, head tilting back in invitation. Geralt forces himself to think with his head instead of his dick.

“How long do your heats usually last?” he asks, voice rough, almost a bark. It does nothing but make Jaskier shiver, and Geralt knows it’s not in fear (there is definitely no fear here now).

Jaskier takes a moment to think through the haze no doubt clouding his mind. “Um, four days, I guess? Longer, if I’m just coming off suppressants, but I haven’t been on those in years. Shorter with a partner.”

“How much shorter?”

“About two days?” he says, like he isn’t sure. “Day and a half at the shortest.”

Geralt tries to think, lust clouding his own mind (because dammit if he isn’t, hasn’t been, and won’t always be attracted to this idiot of an omega). They’re about three days out from the next town, but traveling in the middle of a heat is probably the most unpleasant thing an omega can do—impossible, really, because they’re nearly incapacitated with the desire to fuck.

But having a heat in the middle of goddamn nowhere with monsters roaming around and drawn to the smell of heat pheromones isn’t a whole lot better.

Unless—

He doesn’t even think as he slides his swords off his back and lets them fall to the ground at his feet. His alpha pants in anticipation, impatient. Jaskier watches him with lidded eyes as he stalks forward, coming right up to him and crowding in close. Those blue eyes flutter shut for a moment, and he leans into Geralt as he dips his head down and presses his nose to that scent gland.

“Wh-what are you doing,” he gasps when Geralt places his hands on his hips, tugs him closer. Geralt noses against the gland, inhaling the scent from the source, and feels his chest rumble with a growl. He lets his nose trail lightly up the side of Jaskier’s face as he brings his head up, meeting his eyes.

“We’re too far out to travel with you like this,” he answers, “and your pheromones will start attracting who knows what kind of beasts the longer into heat you go.”

Jaskier mewls when Geralt dips back down and licks his neck, tasting that sweet and enticing scent for himself. “But,” he continues, voice rough with growing passion and want, need rising inside him, “they’ll keep their distance if they smell me on you, smell you _claimed._ ”

“ _Gods, yes,_ ” Jaskier moans, and he tilts his head back to let Geralt at him, going boneless and weak-kneed in his arms. His own arms come up around Geralt’s shoulders, fingers sliding down his collar to dig into the skin of his neck. Geralt reaches down, grips his ass, and feels slick soaking through his pants.

They go to the ground, Geralt above Jaskier and between his legs where he rolls his hips and grinds their cocks together. Jaskier moans again and returns the motion, spreading his legs wider and urging Geralt closer by pulling on his shoulders. Geralt keeps his nose buried in his neck, teeth lightly scraping over his skin, nipping at the bolt of his jaw and his collarbones, drawing blood to the surface and leaving pinpricks of bruises.

“ _Mine,_ ” he growls, and Jaskier nods frantically, clawing at him in increasing desperation. It pumps through his veins, the urge to _mate fuck claim mate mate mate._ They struggle to get their clothes out of the way, coats and tunics discarded, belts undone and pants kicked off.

“ _Yours,_ ” Jaskier breathes, throwing his head back. Geralt can’t resist the urge anymore—he bites down, sucking the skin into his mouth and worrying it between his teeth, careful not to break it. Jaskier keens, long and high-pitched.

The sun is low on the horizon, golden rays shining off the sweat on their skin as they move together, finding their rhythm. Jaskier is dripping slick, thighs covered in it, soaking the ground beneath him and Geralt as he presses his cock, hard and thick, knot already beginning to form at the base, against him.

Jaskier chokes on another mewl, thrusting up, legs around Geralt’s hips to urge him closer. “ _Please, please, please,_ ” he begs, rolling his hips, his own leaking cock pressing against Geralt’s stomach, smearing precome. It makes Geralt’s cock slip against him, the tip barely breaching him before slipping away again. Geralt bites him again, snarling, and Jaskier just moans again and pulls at his shoulders. “Oh, fuck, _please,_ Geralt, just fuck me!”

“You smell so good,” Geralt says, rough and deep. He presses hard kisses into Jaskier’s skin, tasting him—orange blossoms and honey and rainstorm and molasses—trailing from his collarbones up his jaw to his mouth. “Never scared, just clean. Should be scared, but you’re not. Oranges and honey. Rain. Like it.”

Jaskier pulls back—and oh, no, his alpha doesn’t like _that—_ just enough to meet Geralt’s burning gaze, his own blue eyes shining with haze. His mouth hangs open, panting, and Geralt’s eyes are drawn to it. He watches as a tongue wets those lips, watches them move as Jaskier whispers, hotly, enticingly, demanding, “ _Fuck me, alpha._ ”

 _Take what’s yours,_ he doesn’t say, but Geralt hears it. He crashes his mouth onto Jaskier’s, claiming those lips, that tongue, and fucks into him in one motion with a roll of his hips, his cock sliding into that wet heat, knot catching at the end. He swallows the keening noise Jaskier makes and keeps kissing him as he sets a hard, fast pace, skin slapping loudly in the waning evening, stars beginning to come out above them.

It’s hot and rough and near goddamn perfect. Jaskier takes him like he was made for Geralt, like his body was crafted just to let him in and keep him there. He kisses back desperately, biting at Geralt’s mouth, licking against him to taste deeper. Geralt lets him, _wants_ him deeper, inside him so far he’ll never leave again and Geralt can protect him always.

It’s over almost too soon, because this is just the first round of many they’re going to have tonight.

Geralt fucks hard and deep, drawing out the most incredible sounds from Jaskier’s mouth and swallowing them right into his chest. They’re soaked in sweat and slick, bruises dotting Jaskier’s collarbones and neck and scratch marks sting down Geralt’s back where Jaskier’s nails had dug into him. With one particular thrust, Jaskier finally comes, shaking as he spills between them, and the _smell_ of him and the _sounds_ he makes—begging, _please please please fill me up alpha I want it I need it—_ has him pressing in as deep as he can go and finding his own release, knot growing and locking them together, a deep, satisfied groan leaving his throat.

He slumps down minutes later, still pumping seed into Jaskier, but no longer in possession of enough strength to hold himself up. His knees are scraped from the ground, and he thinks Jaskier’s back probably feels the same, but the contented humming he’s doing as he runs fingers through Geralt’s hair says he doesn’t mind.

“That _,_ ” Jaskier says, voice breathy, “was _fantastic_.”

Geralt just gives a soft _hm,_ letting his body relax. The night air is cool, and he feels Jaskier’s skin starting to pebble as the gentle breeze catches his sweat. They’ll need to start a fire and set up camp properly just as soon as they’re not tied together anymore.

Jaskier’s scent has now lost that thick hint of molasses, though Geralt knows it’ll be back soon. It’s clean again, just orange blossoms and honey and rain, and he buries his nose in Jaskier’s neck again, inhaling it deeply. It makes Jaskier let out a soft sound, but he just holds Geralt tighter, and they fall into silence.

Sometime later, as Geralt’s knot finally goes down, Jaskier breaks the quiet. “I could never be scared of you. You know that.”

Geralt turns his head to peer at him, still too sated to work up much skepticism. “Hm.”

Jaskier brushes hair from Geralt’s face, fingers lingering on his cheek. “All those witcher senses, and you don’t know why?”

Geralt _does_ know. It’s rare in this world—nothing that has a particular scent, just a...a hint of something, something natural and inherent. It’s clean and simple and pure, uncomplicated. Different for every person who feels it.

 _Love_ on Jaskier smells like orange blossoms and honey and rainstorms.

Geralt shifts, cock slipping out of Jaskier, making him suck in a breath. He pushes himself up, worn and tired, muscles aching but in a good way. Jaskier sits up after him, making a face when come and slick rush out of him onto the ground. He wipes at the mess on his chest.

“Gods, look at me! I'm filthy! Disgusting! I hate this.”

He continues muttering to himself as Geralt finds them a place—away from that particular spot—to set up camp. He feels Jaskier’s eyes on him as he goes to Roach and starts pulling out their supplies, trailing over his naked body shamelessly. It makes the alpha in him preen and his cock twitch again.

He gives Jaskier a look, eyebrow raised and mouth curled in a smirk. “Like what you see?”

“Always,” Jaskier replies, meeting his eyes. He returns the smirk with one of his own. “But that’s not news to you, surely.”

It’s not, but it’s nice to hear, anyway.

By the time the fire is going, Jaskier’s scent has molasses mixed in it again, and Geralt lies back and lets him sit in his lap, doing what he pleases to get himself off. They collapse together afterwards, Jaskier sprawled on top of Geralt, trailing nimble fingers, bard’s fingers, over his chest, tracing scars and other inane patterns.

“You have ruined me for all others,” Jaskier says conversationally, dramatic as always. Geralt just grunts in response. “You have! There is no other on this planet—nor any others, I’d imagine—that pleasures me as you do! Is it a witcher talent or is it just you?”

Geralt reaches a hand up to Jaskier’s face, tilting his chin with a finger so that he’s looking in his eyes, and kisses him deep and lingering just to shut him up. Jaskier hums in content and lets himself be kissed.

Geralt figures it’s a decent end to a day that he knew was going to go to shit. 

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up [@troubadorer](http://twitter.com/troubadorer) on twitter to yell abt these dorks just living their lives


End file.
